


Rafflesia

by malfestio



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Again, Flower Language, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, akechi character study, depiction of injury, flower shop, mentions of other phantom thieves, not an au, robin and loki are there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfestio/pseuds/malfestio
Summary: Akira works at a flower shop. Akechi is hunting for excuses to bring the two closer. Somehow, he’s come to the conclusion that buying a bouquet from his enemy is a good way to do that.





	1. Carolina Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paolumu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paolumu/gifts).

CAROLINA ROSE: 

_ A shrub with pink flowers that emerge in the  _

_ summer. Often associated with the dangers of  _

_ falling in love.  _

✿

The bustling crowd is distracting. Akechi watches people emerge, push and shove their way past each other, then merge again, utterly insignificant. It’s like observing ants, each specimen acting in the interest of their own objective. Only ants work together, and they work towards something meaningful. 

People do not. 

Akechi attempts, not for the first time, to turn his attention back to the task at hand. In front of him lies his destination: the flower shop. It certainly isn’t a location he would visit on his own whims, but the place seems to be liked well enough by the general public - it’s still open, after all. Typical of people to chase a fleeting beauty. 

Irritatingly enough, a preemptive scan of the location can’t be carried out properly. The storefront’s glass walls are lined with blooming plants of varying colors, all drowning in a sea of green. The store has thus shielded itself from view. Akechi considers moving closer, attempting to see past the swarm of people that block his view of the door, but ultimately deems the move to be too risky. What would become of the situation should his prey notice him? The element of surprise was not something Akechi liked to lose - it gave him the upper hand. So, left with no other options, he steels himself and cuts through the crowd, striding towards the entrance.

As soon as he steps inside, he’s greeted by a change in the air - the store’s interior is significantly more crisp. The place is clean, white, and very modern, with marbled tiles and shining silver shelves. Plants are packed in here too, crowding the shelves with vibrant colors and filling the icy fridges that line the walls. With a name like Rafflesia, Akechi had expected a much more dingy store. The bright display he’s met with instead is giving him the beginnings of a headache, but the shop does smell nice. Various floral scents linger and mingle, and Akechi is reminded of the many luxury bath products he keeps around his apartment. 

At the far right wall is the single register, manned by the very person Akechi’s come to see. He’s sitting on a stool behind the counter, currently absorbed in something on his phone, and hasn’t taken notice of Akechi’s quiet entry. Such an advantage should never go wasted, so Akechi takes a brief moment to study the scene in front of him: the wall behind the register is made of a rustic brown brick, contrasting with the pristine whiteness of the other walls. It’s more sparsely decorated, with just a few hanging plants and some pots here and there. Some flashy posters are taped up, advertising sales and displaying simple diagrams on flower symbolism. Kurusu himself looks the same as always: disheveled, fluffy black hair falling over his face in curls, dark eyes, and soft lips, forming an annoyingly vacant expression on his face. He’s wearing his stupid faux glasses as a part of his usual act, but Akechi can’t find it in him to hate them outside of their concept. The only difference in his appearance is the green apron he now wears, accompanied by a small clip-on name tag that neatly reads:  KURUSU . 

Determined to make the first move, Akechi strides further inside, this time allowing his shoes to click loudly on the tiled floor. Kurusu’s head snaps up and his unperturbed expression is replaced by one of surprise. From somewhere in his depths, Akechi enjoys this small victory. “Akechi,” Kurusu blurts out, voice as monotonous as ever, and though his expression retains a careful level of emptiness, this is the closest he’s been to resembling a deer in car headlights. Such an uncharacteristic display of emotion leaves Akechi aching to see more - he wants to watch Kurusu’s joy, his anger, his disgust and fear and pain and sorrow - he wants to see everything, but then the moment is gone, Kurusu is returning to his tired, unreadable self, and Akechi’s mouth has gone dry. 

It’s only when he attempts to respond that he notices the sudden tightness in his throat. 

“I didn’t think I’d run into you here,” he lies, “but, as always, the surprise is a pleasant one.” For a brief moment, with the intent way Kurusu watches him, Akechi’s disguise seems completely transparent. He feels a level of panic swell up inside of him, and he’s sure Kurusu knows, but then he smiles, and Akechi can breathe. 

“Destiny again?” Kurusu jests, but it’s lighthearted. 

Akechi hums in response. “I think so, don’t you?” 

“I’ve already told you, I don’t believe in fate.” 

Ah, Akechi thinks, and he begins to pace around the shop. But they do have an intertwining fate - and it’s not the way Kurusu thinks it is, with two meant-to-bes bumping into each other at every turn. It’s the fate of two tricksters, two wild cards, both in situations so similar, yet so different. It’s a cat and mouse fate, in which he chases Kurusu down like a wild animal, stalks him and hunts him, but does so while extending his hand as a friend. It’s a fate in which Akechi orchestrates their meetings, times things just right, and acts as though it’s all coincidence, retracts his claws and hides his fangs. It’s a fate he created. It’s something he controls. 

“Is that so?”

Their fate is a tangible truth no matter what he believes. 

Kurusu shuffles around at the counter, slipping his phone into his pocket and offering Akechi his full attention - a notably rare treat to his other friends. “There might be something like it,” he states flatly, with a cat-like tilt of his head, “but it isn’t concrete. It can be rewritten.” 

A very poetic response, and a very naive opinion. It suits him, Akechi thinks, to believe these things. Kurusu, who changes people. Kurusu, who defies everything. Kurusu, the rebel, the gentleman thief. He has a freedom of heart that Akechi himself lacks, and it’s disgustingly beautiful, like watching a dove trapped in a gilded cage, unaware of the bars. Akechi considers how it would look to watch this freedom drain, see the glint leave his eyes, witness him break and conform to society’s whims, but oh, Kurusu is so beautiful like this, like porcelain, endlessly on the verge of shattering. 

Akechi remembers himself. With a brighter smile, he strides towards the counter. With an electrified heart, he thinks about slapping the boy that sits there. 

“How very like you,” he says instead, and Kurusu tilts his head again. Akechi’s eyes fixate on the way his hair falls, the way his lips part just so, and then he’s smirking, something more devious in his eyes, and Akechi’s blood turns to molasses. It suits him, is all he can think. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about fate?” Kurusu’s voice is smooth as he speaks, and it’s twisting Akechi’s stomach in a way that he hates. 

Despite all his hatred, he manages a light laugh. “No. Actually, I’d like a bouquet.” 


	2. Tiger Lily

TIGER LILY (ORANGE):

_ A tall, brilliantly orange lily with purple spots.  _

_ Blooms in late summer and represents fiery  _

_ pride, reminiscent of its namesake. _

✿

The bright lights of Tokyo’s nightlife pass in colorful blurs. People blur by too, in messy blobs of clothes and hair, vibrant and dull where they stand on the sidewalks. They’re absorbed into the intoxicating excitement of the night and forgotten among a sea of others, all seeking the same thrilling escapes from reality. Akechi watches them from the window of his taxi, but he’s uninterested - his mind is elsewhere, on the equally colorful display in his lap, and on the boy who gently prepared it with nimble fingers. 

Red and white. 

He had left the flower selection entirely up to Kurusu’s trained discretion, claiming that the bouquet was merely something to brighten his desk and take his mind off of the stresses of work. In truth, Akechi simply didn’t care what went into it. The act of purchasing the flowers had been entirely for the purpose of further gaining Kurusu’s favor, something that was by no means handed out easily. The whole display considered, Kurusu clearly made his decisions with something other than Akechi’s personal tastes in mind - instead of speaking  _ to _ him, the bouquet seems to speak  _ of _ him. 

Akechi had entered the store under the assumption that he would be picking up his order during the next day. Such a thing is customary - workers often lack the time to complete same-day orders, especially at such a late hour. However, Kurusu had something else in mind, insisting that the day’s business had concluded and that, with the lack of customers in the shop, there was plenty of time for him to start the order immediately. But Kurusu does not always speak the truth, and to Akechi, the gesture appeared to be a result of favoritism more than anything else - a positive sign for the success of his plans. Still, the thought of Kurusu placing such a priority on him warms something in the pit of his stomach, buried under layers and layers of thick, black sludge. Such a warmth is sudden and startling in a place long since rotten, and it forces his stomach to twist into itself, then untwist again - the desperate defense mechanism of a kicked puppy. Akechi is faced once again with the unfamiliar feeling that has chased him since their meeting. 

On principle, a chance to better know one’s enemy should never go ignored. To accommodate Kurusu’s stubborn nature, a change in schedule was made. Instead of heading to his bar of choice for a game of billiards, Akechi opted to seize his lucky prize and spend his time watching Kurusu cut and arrange the plants. However, spending time with Kurusu is never that simple - a minute goes by, then ten, then twenty, and Akechi is left with sweaty palms and a throbbing heart, tearing into the mushing remnants of his brain for an interesting conversation topic. Kurusu never mentions this awkwardness despite certainly, undoubtedly, assuredly and definitely noticing, which is simultaneously gratifying and utterly infuriating. Everything about Kurusu is received in this way, and Akechi has once again made a liar out of himself - his warring emotions clash against each other endlessly, and yet no truth is reached. 

Their time was largely spent discussing flowers. Akechi fixated himself on the philosophical nature of things, while Kurusu would always bring the conversation back to the plants he was preparing. He’d gently hold out each addition for Akechi to smell, muttering something about its symbolic meaning in his honey-thick voice, accompanied by a characteristic tilt of his head. In many ways, he’s very much like a cat - picky, quiet, and selective in who he keeps company with. To be one of those people is a treat, because Kurusu is a level above the rest, a rare treasure that common people will always fail to comprehend. But Akechi is also special in this way, and so he is perhaps the only other person to understand him. That thought excites him, because the true scope of Kurusu’s character is something he can have to himself, protected from even the prying eyes of Kurusu’s own comrades. 

Red and white are obvious choices. Clean, regal colors, representative of the justice he supposedly upholds. They’re the colors of a storybook prince, or of a refined hero. According to Kurusu, the flowers used represent intelligence, charisma, grace and purity, all aspects of Akechi’s carefully crafted image. Red and white are colors Akechi would expect. But Kurusu is a boy who defies all of Akechi’s expectations repeatedly, who renders his years of expertise on the nature of humans completely useless. 

There are yet more colors, bright blues and yellows, that seemingly go against Akechi’s mask, and somehow, they still suit him. The blues are soft, tired and cynical, while the yellows thrive on secrets and revenge. Kurusu has somehow stripped Akechi of his guards, layer by layer, until the shrieking creature underneath is laid bare, and then he has studied it, taken it apart and sewn it back together, only to feign cluelessness about the monster he has so boldly dissected. Akechi wonders if he’s reading too much into this, if the flowers were a coincidence, but then again, Kurusu is one who speaks in hidden metaphors, and Kurusu often seems to notice more than he lets on. Akechi has no way of knowing for sure.

The bouquet is a disgusting thing. It’s a form of weakness. Akechi’s shadow, ever looming over his shoulder, agrees with this. The other, newer shadow does not - the one that yet lacks a form or a name makes claims of beauty with a soundless voice. Akechi considers these claims, and at first, they seem terribly and completely wrong. However, he breaks it down, then builds it back up only to break and build it again. Emotions are much like an open wound, unattended and festering. There is little beauty to be found in disease, yet the thought of Kurusu brings another wave of heat over his body. 

Kurusu is beautiful. Akechi knows this. So the bouquet is beautiful because it was crafted by his hands. But Kurusu is also ugly, he is also unspeakably disgusting, because he dares to be everything that Akechi wants. The heat is replaced by fire, and Akechi wonders how it would feel to beat the gentle smile from Kurusu’s perfect face. 

If Kurusu is a cat, then Akechi is a wolf masquerading as a loyal dog. 

The looming shadow speaks again, urging Akechi to dispose of the glorified weeds in the nearest trash bin as soon as he’s home. This is what he had planned to do from the beginning - flowers are a frivolity that aren’t needed in his life. 

Kurusu is one that is. 

As if arguing, the formless, nameless blob calls out without words. 

You have a vase, it says. 

The ride suddenly feels long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akechi king of monologues king of overthinking


	3. Chrysanthemum

✿

CHRYSANTHEMUM (YELLOW):

_ Large, round flowers that bloom in the fall. Often  _

_ understood to be a symbol of happiness, but  _

_ can represent neglected love and sorrow. _

✿

In the Metaverse, Kurusu is graceful. 

In the real world, he’s much more tense, seemingly without realizing. It’s visible in the way he moves, in the tightness of his shoulders, and in the way he curls up into himself in a crowd. Kurusu places himself at a distance from others and hides. This is done so in the interest of protecting himself, because Kurusu does not trust people, and this is something Akechi can understand - yet another thread that connects them. Despite this, there are moments in which Kurusu unwinds. Akechi has witnessed this in the way his shoulders loosen when he pours a cup of coffee, and in the way he relaxes against the back of his chair while watching a movie. The slouch in his posture decreases just slightly, and his voice trades ice for a thick, rich warmth. With it, his laugh becomes fuller and much more genuine. 

In the metaverse, Kurusu is an entirely different person, and very much his own opposite. His movements are fluid and relaxed, graceful even in combat, and he carries himself with a dignity that is uncharacteristic of a thief. Akechi has watched him sneak through hallways deftly, avoiding the glowing eyes of guards, and he has watched him pierce through waves of enemies and bring shadows to their knees. He’s a paragon leader, shining brightly among his lesser-talented comrades - he stalks, steals, ambushes and kills, all seemingly without effort. But there is an effort, one Akechi has seen during his many hours spent watching the thieves from afar. When his teammates aren’t looking, or aren’t paying attention, Kurusu changes. He returns to his stiff shoulders and tense posture, and he returns to a visible state of hiding. He’s tired, Akechi knows, because he’s been saddled with a weight that he refuses to discard for the sake of others. He has martyred himself for the sake of those he saves, and for the sake of his companions, who have no hope without him. Kurusu is the tie that binds them all together, he’s the one that pulls all the strings, the only one who truly makes the group function - but everything is done at the cost of himself. Kurusu has accepted this remarkably well, resigning himself to it - it’s his heart, Akechi knows, that forces him to aid those in need, or else it wilts further, a dying rose beginning to lose its petals. Akechi understands this on a logical level, but he can’t bring himself to comprehend it emotionally. Sacrificing oneself for the needs of another - it’s storybook, it’s poetic, and it’s something Akechi isn’t acquainted with, but he understands that he’s selfish. He understands that everything he has done and will do has been for the singular purpose of serving himself, because he has never had nor needed anyone else. Kurusu is selfless, and he suffers for it. 

As far as Akechi knows, he is the only one who is privy to Kurusu’s secrets. 

The boy in question is currently weaving his way through a gaggle of shadows in the bank palace’s lobby, leaving his companions in his dust - where they should be - to struggle with keeping up. Five angels, each with a pair of brilliant and almost iridescent wings, move to surround him, but that’s what he wants. The shadows attempt to strike him in a flurry of light, but he’s fast, faster than they are, and only two blows manage to connect - one hits his back, and the other lands on his chest. The cognitive cloth that shields his body is burnt away, devoured hungrily by the glowing beams. Underneath, his soft, beautiful skin is assaulted, wrinkling up with a disgusting crackle reminiscent of bubbling oil. Kurusu winces in pain and a strangled cry escapes his lips, but it’s silenced as quickly as it comes out. His companions call his name, and a few even step forward to help, but that’s where it ends - a step. They’re too weak, too drained. Kurusu is attracting attention and placing himself in harm’s way because he needs to protect them. He falls, and the angels move in for the kill, but he’s planned this, and he knows what to do next. An explosive, reeking pool of curse magic appears at the shadows’ feet then extends upwards, in diseased tendrils of red and black flame. The angels scream and struggle, but it’s too late - they’re caught in Kurusu’s trap, like a moth in a spider’s web. With a great effort, Kurusu has already lifted himself from the ground by the time the shadows dissolve. He limps toward the huddled group of others, refusing their offers of healing. He isn’t concerned for himself, but rather Sakamoto, who had been knocked unconscious sometime at the start of the fray. “Skull first,” he breathes, and it’s weak. “Skull first.” 

His companions are reluctant, but they relent. They understand that though Kurusu is more essential to their livelihood, he has given them an order, and contesting him would be pointless. Instead, they focus their efforts on Sakamoto, who is still unmoving. Out of their three eligible healers, only two summon their personas forth. The new one, Sae’s sister - she isn’t used to this yet, and she’s tired, much more so than the others, so she stands off to the side, cursing her own uselessness. A familiar thought crosses Akechi’s mind - none of these people deserve Kurusu. They have never and will never deserve Kurusu. Through bright flashes of healing light, Akechi focuses his attention on the single person who is worth any amount of his time. 

It’s Kurusu. It’s always been Kurusu, from their very first moment together - no, prior to that. Kurusu, Kurusu, Kurusu. 

Kurusu has lost his balance again, but he doesn’t stand back up. Perhaps he knows he can’t, he knows he’ll only show his own weakness if he tries. Akechi feels a bubbling anger begin to stir from within - the other thieves are at fault for this. He studies the look on Kurusu’s face, unemotional and resigned, but he can sense something humiliated, something angry underneath. Kurusu has bitten his lip repeatedly in his efforts to stifle his own whimpers of pain, and it’s swollen. It’s bleeding.

The blood trickles down, down, down, staining his clothes, but he hasn’t noticed. He’s preoccupied with his own burns, with Sakamoto. Akechi is preoccupied with his lips. 

Kurusu wipes his mouth, an act of subconsciousness, and the blood smears.

Akechi swallows. 

The thieves turn to refocus on their leader. In doing so, they almost spot him. 

He turns and flees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was so busy yesterday i forgot to put this up. akechi are you aware that you are perhaps maybe possibly catching..... feelings?


	4. Petunia

✿

PETUNIA:

_ Small flowers of varying colors that bloom nearly  _

_ year-round. Can be given to express resentment  _

_ or, contrarily, to say “your presence soothes me.” _

✿

It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

Instead, Akechi has found himself returning home with a fresh bouquet. It’s his third, prepared three weeks since the first, and its contents have been once again selected by Kurusu himself. This time, the flowers come in three colors - bright, clean whites, soft yellows, and strong pinks. 

Akechi makes quick work of preparing the vase, having rehearsed the steps well with the past bouquets - the older, now drooping flowers are disposed of in his trash bin, the clear glass of the vase is cleaned thoroughly and polished until it shines, and then the new display is arranged inside with great care. He’s cut the stalks at an angle, the way Kurusu had shown him, so that the plants may better soak up the water, which has been fused with some store-bought plant nutrients. The process of cleaning up the vase and trimming the stalks is one that will need repeating closer to the middle of the week if the bouquet’s freshness is to be preserved. As for the plant nutrients, they’re the brand Kurusu prefers - something Akechi picked up on through careful observation rather than a recommendation. 

When he finishes his work, Akechi sets the vase back in its rightful place on his bedroom’s lowest bookshelf. It’s the centerpiece, placed upon a white display mat, but there isn’t much else on the shelf anyways - like the rest of his room, it’s barren. The furniture is minimalistic, very sparsely placed, and comes in grayscale and earthy brown tones. His shelves are largely empty, with the only clear exception being the designated spot for his surplus of books. These ones aren’t the mystery novels or encyclopedias that he keeps in his living room - no, they’re romance novels, his guilty pleasure, and Akechi isn’t quite sure why he bought them or how he managed to get through them without hurling himself off of the nearest roof. Reading them gives him a headache, and a stomachache, and a heartache, yet he keeps purchasing more in his pitiful moments of weakness. There’s something alluring about them, in all their cheesiness. It’s like watching ants again, only these ants are much more silly, and they’re chasing after something that doesn’t exist. 

Akechi is chasing after Kurusu. Kurusu may not exist. 

His walls are equally as empty. They’re painted a neutral brown, soft and light, and it reminds Akechi of the coffee Kurusu serves his customers when they ask for too much cream. There’s nothing on them, though - no photos, or paintings, or posters. He does have a simple cork board above his work desk, overflowing with pinned sheets of case information and vague notes written with a red pen. It’s all highly sensitive, but Akechi doesn’t have any guests to witness them. When it comes down to it, that’s the reason for his decoration - no guests to impress, no mask to wear. Akechi can’t find it in himself to care for these material things. His time here is only temporary, only as long as he needs a place to sleep while his father yet breathes. When Shido is killed and Akechi’s plan is finally complete, he will be out of a purpose. The world will then end and he will die accordingly, at peace. 

Kurusu is a guest, he supposes, but Kurusu is not someone he needs to hide documents from, or decorate his apartment for. Actually, Kurusu does the decorating for him. 

Somehow, Akechi is amused that his apartment would come to life in such small ways, simply because of Kurusu. Outside of his bedroom, there is now color. The shelves are filling up with trinkets, ornaments, and other novelties, all either gifts from Kurusu himself or souvenirs from their little 'dates.' The counters of his kitchen and shelves of his fridge, which had been empty of anything but takeout containers and fruits for years, have containers of home cooked meals and freshly baked goods, lovingly prepared and packed for him by his supposed enemy. There’s paintings now, hanging on his walls, made by Kurusu’s own hands. Some of them are abstract, scathing comments on society, painted in a style that, so he says, calls back to the Pop Art of the 1950’s West. The others are landscapes, done in a completely different style. Where his other paintings have bright, strong colors, the landscapes tend to be softer, more muted. Where one style features hard, linear strokes, the other has rounded flecks of color, which Kurusu calls “Pointillism-adjacent.” He says they’re Post-Impressionistic, which is a term Akechi needed to research. 

None of this should matter. None of it mattered before. Now there is Kurusu. 

On the shelf in front of him, next to the fresh bouquet, there’s a book.  _ The Language of Flowers,  _ it’s called. It’s a hardcover, old and worn from years of use, and the corners bend inwards just slightly. The cover is a deep turquoise, with accents of a rich, shining gold, and there’s a picture in the middle, depicting a single flower that Akechi could immediately identify as nightshade - served well, he supposes, by an interest in poisonous plants during his youth. The book is quite thick, which it owes to the hundreds of entries inside, Each has its own little pictures and diagrams, accompanied by information on growing conditions and flower care. The bits on symbolism delve into historical usage around the world - it’s all quite detailed, really. 

He had purchased the hefty thing from a used bookstore some time ago, before first setting foot in Rafflesia, in an effort to familiarize himself with the subject of flowers. To put it simply, Kurusu is a florist, and Akechi must be knowledgeable about his target’s interests. It prevents him from making himself out to be an idiot and, more importantly, it gives them something to talk about. Conversation as a means of bonding, of gaining trust - very beneficial. 

From within him, his darker shadow stirs and twitches. Venomous and predatory, it hisses: it’s beneficial to your plan. 

The newer being, which has now found its name, its shape, counters this: it’s beneficial to your relationship, it whispers. 

Once again, Akechi is left in the middle, lost. He’s circled around, come back to his uneasy, unsure days, the days when he started Shido’s work, when he questioned throwing everything away. Kurusu has brought him back to this, and he hates it. He hates Kurusu’s smile, his voice, his laugh, and the way it feels to kiss him. He hates their banter, and he hates the nights they spend in the quiet of Leblanc’s attic, offering each other. Akechi hates these things because he loves them. They’re addicting, they’re intoxicating, and he’s never had enough - every word and every touch leaves his body aching, begging for more. Kurusu excites him, electrifies him, fills him with a light dizziness, as if he’s floating. But the very same feeling is also the heaviest, most sickening weight he has ever felt. 

This is how he would like to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a bit of a mood-setter for the next one. this is also the last time the king of monologues is stuck in his head for a whole chapter (itll all be more interaction based from here on). this chapter is a nice break from the rollercoaster of goro akechi but its the only one youre getting so cherish it


	5. Hyacinth

✿

HYACINTH (YELLOW):

_ Elongated clusters of fragrant, yellow flowers that  _

_ bloom in the spring. Are poisonous and have a  _

_ single, clear-cut meaning: jealousy. _

✿

Akira Kurusu may yet exist. 

This idea is difficult to grasp fully. Akechi attempts regardless, because he has been left with the time, or rather, he has had the time shoved upon him. In this moment, in the quiet emptiness of a tucked-away bar, time has ceased to pass. Akechi waits, and he watches, with the intent gaze of a guard dog poised to attack. In front of him, there is Kurusu, now Akira, in his dubious state of existence. 

Such moments have become commonplace between them. 

The lights flicker dimly, illuminating his face. They attempt to bring a brightness to his eyes, but this attempt fails completely. Akira’s eyes are far too dark, too deep and too cold, and the brightness is devoured into him as quickly as it flashes. Akechi is not immune to this hunger - he, too, is swallowed, captured by their charm, and so he is fond of them. They’re blank eyes, emotionless more often than not, but sometimes, at the right moment, in the right company, they swirl with something unknown and undisclosed. Sometimes, in solitude, in safety, Akira’s eyes warm. Akechi is sucked in, drawn to them like a moth to a flame that carries the heat of the sun and the frost of ice. 

Akira shifts and begins to prowl, almost float, around the billiards table, and there’s a slight furrow in his brow. Yet slighter, there’s traces of a frown on his face, noticeable only in the loose draw of his lips at their corners. This face isn’t an unfamiliar one - it’s a mark of Akira’s concentration, his dedication and determination. Akechi has been well acquainted with it, both up close, through games of chess, and afar, by stalking him through the twisted corruption of the Metaverse. Akira circles the table again, ethereal, calculating, but he doesn’t see an opening, and he can sense another impending loss. However, Akira Kurusu is a man of dignity, and Akira Kurusu does not go down without a fight. He bends over the table and lines himself up to shoot. A fire is lit within him in this brief moment, fanned by Akechi’s watchful stare, and his phantasmal qualities vanish. He becomes tangible, real, and colorful, and just for an instant, he’s full of vibrant, powerful life. 

This side of Akira is yet another piece to the puzzle. It’s something that is most often bared in the Metaverse, where Akira no longer fears drawing eyes to himself, and where he’s required to motivate his comrades through his own displays of bravery. During these times, Akira reveals a confidence that he places in his abilities - not cockiness or arrogance, but rightful confidence, a genuine understanding of the feats he’s capable of. This too is done for the sake of his teammates, but so are the rest of his actions, because the Phantom Thieves are hopeless without his selflessness. 

The click of the ball draws Akechi’s attention outside of his mind’s labyrinths. Akira has made his shot, and the cue ball is sent rolling into a striped nine. It bounces off of the table’s edge and rolls into the opposing pocket with a thud. He shoots again, but this time the ball doesn’t make it. “Your move,” he says. Akechi stalks forward and takes position. He aims, steadies his hand, and holds his breath - one, two, three, and he shoots. Akira backs up, watching Akechi pocket his last solid, and then pot the eight-ball. He takes his defeat with the same dignity he had displayed prior, but the moment the game is over, Akira’s warmth fades back into ice. 

“Good game,” Akechi offers, and Akira only hums in response. He has lost again, which is no news - he hasn’t won a single game so far. He’s still a beginner, and Akechi doesn’t give him much breathing room, because coddling him, going easy on him, would only serve to stunt his development as a player. It would also upset him more than losing. Akira is competitive, and Akira has pride. 

“You had an opening, but you didn’t take it. Why?” 

Akira huffs at this. He very clearly knows that Akechi intends to play with him again, like a cat dangling its prized mouse by the tail, but he doesn’t seem to care. He never cares. “It was risky.” He’s humoring him, answering such an obvious question like this. 

“Are you not a risk-taker?” 

This time, Akira is silent. The look on his face - the weakness - makes Akechi want to kiss him, but he can’t, not here, not now, so instead, when the silence drags on for a moment too long, Akechi speaks again: “You haven’t been yourself lately.” To hide the excited trembling of his hands, he grabs a square of blue chalk and begins chalking the cue of his pool stick. “You should have tried it,” he says, “and the Akira I know would have.” Akira watches him without making eye contact. 

“I know,” he mumbles. He’s relented quickly. Yet another abnormality. 

He’s tired.

Akechi knows the root of this problem. It’s the Phantom Thieves, just as it has always been the Phantom Thieves. They work him too hard, push him too far, take advantage of his generosity. He’ll do anything for them at the cost of himself, and they abuse this. The Thieves don’t deserve to stand by his side, they don’t deserve to claim his victories and his battles as their own. 

It should be Akechi standing next to him. It should be Akechi backing him up. 

They don’t deserve Akira. Akechi does.

He wants to ask what’s wrong with him, why he’s acting like this, but he knows. He knows everything without Akira ever uttering a word - but Akechi wants him to give it a voice. Akechi wants to be told everything, from the beginning, from Akira’s own mouth. He wants Akira to need him. He needs Akira to want him. 

Akira will break. He always breaks eventually, so he will snap and shiver and sob on the bathroom floor in the dead of night. These displays are exclusive. They’re for Akechi’s eyes only. 

Akechi hugs him, on these nights. 

He doesn’t let go. 

Until then, Akechi can only provide assistance indirectly, through riddles and metaphors.

“Don’t worry,” he says, intent on resuming their previous conversation, “you’ve been making good progress.” He sets aside the pool stick as Akira rounds the table again, this time simply to close the distance between them. There’s something catlike in the way he moves to lean against the billiards table, then eyes Akechi carefully. This is a response in and of itself - Akira does not often use words - and so Akechi speaks again: “Playing it safe would have been a wise choice in other circumstances, but you don’t need me to tell you that.” 

From around them, the glasses of patrons clink. There’s a rowdy, drunken laughter emanating from the room’s edges, but the establishment is nowhere near busy. Akira is now staring at the floor, falling into another absent daydream. 

Akechi must hold his attention, before Akira loses himself in his own head. “The learner always begins by finding fault,” he starts, and Akira’s head snaps up just slightly. 

He recognizes this, and finishes it in a sigh: “but the scholar sees the positive merit in everything, right?” As always, he knows what Akechi is playing at. “Hegel again?” 

“Does he not interest you?”

Akira’s eyes dart elsewhere once more. “You interest me more than he does,” he mutters. 

Ah.

“Ah.”

Akechi feels his face heat and his mind empty. He wants to say five different things and absolutely nothing all at once, but what comes out of his numbed brain is a confession. “You interest me,” Akechi breathes, slow and steady, “more than anyone else.” 

That would not happen to be any of the five things. 

“I know.” 

They leave it at that. 

It’s eight now, and the sun should have already set past the horizon. September is coming, and with it, the stresses of school will resume. Akechi can persevere, he thinks, there should be little issue, only….

He knows that, right now, it would be best to head home for the night, to spend the rest of his waking hours focusing on his work, but somewhere, something in him doesn’t want to leave Akira’s side just yet. 

Just a few moments longer.

“Are you hungry?” 

Please.

Akira gives him an interested look and a tilt of the head. “We going out for dinner?”

He knows this is a hook, yet he’s bitten. Akechi hums thoughtfully. Akira Kurusu is a generous man. “Anywhere you want,” he says, “my treat.” Akira smirks, and oh, he’s forgotten one very important detail - “But please, no Big Bang Burger.” 

For the first time tonight, Akira laughs, quiet but genuine. 

He may give his every piece and his every effort to the Phantom Thieves, but Akira does keep one thing for himself. A secret, a guilty pleasure he adamantly refuses to lose no matter how much his friends detest it, or how much they attempt to deter him from it - Akechi. 

He moves again, almost floating across the floor, and Akechi realizes something in this small moment:

Akira Kurusu is reminiscent of a ghost who has not yet realized that he’s passed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is my favorite.


End file.
